BtVS/Angel Fic: "Funeral" (1/2)
Apr. 12th, 2005 08:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alixtiiTitle: Funeral (1/2)
Rating: PG.
Timeline/Spoilers: Post-"NFA." Spoilers for the entirety of both series. Prologue to my series Dark Champions.
Summary: Illyria mourns alone. But she isn't the only one. Requiescat in pace. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
karabair who made a suggestion regarding this that I just couldn't pass up.
Funeral
Illyria
The sun rose on the Los Angeles alley, and Illyria was alone, surrounded by the dead remains of monstrous evil. But then, she had always been alone. If the ashes of Spike and Angel could be found among the corpses, or if they had found shelter from the dawn, she did not know. The body of Charles Gunn was to be found somewhere in the carnage, but she knew not where.
And, in the palace of Cyvus Vale, lay the body of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, he who had been her guide in this strange world. Now she had lost even that sense of orientation. The building of the wolf, the ram, and the hart was shattered. She had no place to go, no mission for which to fight anymore. But then, she had always been alone.
When she had ruled this world and so many others like it, traveling from dimension to dimension as she pleased, she had always been alone. When you have power, after all, there is no one that you can trust; everyone wants to steal that power from you. She had lovers, and she had had generals, but she had never had a friend.
The shell had called these people friends, had called Wesley more than a friend, but now they were all fallen, and Illyria was alone, as she always would be.
* * * * *
She did not know why she went to the funeral. She felt she needed closure, some last moment in which to wish Wesley farewell. In any case, she went.
The mourners were a motley crew, with more than a few Shadowmen, for Wesley had once been a Shadowman, Illyria knew. Illyria remembered the Shadowmen, powerful humans with power over demonic forces. They had changed in the intervening millennia, it seemed, by quite a lot.
One of the Shadowmen was Wesley’s father, Roger Wyndam-Pryce, who had come with his wife Delores. He was a clearly powerful, intimidating man, and Illyria knew that Wesley had been afraid of him. Now Illyria wanted nothing more than to tear out the throat of this man who offered and received false condolences, to show him the might of the god-king Illyria. The Shadowmen, with their schemes and machinations, should have fallen down and worshipped her.
Another of the Shadowmen caught her interest. He said his name was Rupert Giles, and when he expressed his sympathy it was real feeling. He and Wesley had worked together, it seemed, some years ago. Rupert Giles looked at her oddly, as if he wandered how such a frail Texan could have survived the destruction of the wolf, the ram, and the hart when all else had fallen, but he said nothing.
And there was the tool of the Shadowmen, the Vampire Slayer, who had been created by them long after Illyria had been confined to the Deeper Well. Her name was Faith, and she burned with a rage that Illyria knew very well.
Soon, all left, the Shadowmen returning to their plans and their schemes, and the Slayer to her battle with evil. Perhaps Illyria would seek out this Slayer, and they would fight side by side. Perhaps, but for now Illyria was alone.
Alone in front of Wesley’s grave, Illyria let herself transform back from the form of the shell. This was who she was, not Winifred Burkle as all the Shadowmen had believed. And she was alone.
* * * * *
Giles
Giles heard from Roger Wyndam-Pryce about Wesley's death. The old man spoke of the death of his son matter-of-factly, in passing, in the same tone of voice he would have used if he were referring to the Council offices running out of coffee. It was a situation; it had to be dealt with.
Upon returning to his London flat, Giles called Faith. He had been her Watcher, after all; when Faith came out of her coma, it was Wesley that she tortured. A perverse connexion, perhaps, but one which he knew had been meaningful to both of them. When Wesley needed help, it was to Faith that he turned.
Wesley had been Buffy's Watcher, too, at least officially, but Giles did not even bother to call her.
He opened his notebook computer (a Mac, of course--Willow insisted on it) and began to make travel plans, for him to travel from London to Los Angeles, and for Faith to travel there from Cleveland. It was the latter set of plans which required more finesse, considering that she and not he was a fugitive from the law.
Within the week, then, Giles had returned to California, to the place where he had lived on and off for seven years, to the place which held so many painful memories for him, ready to add another to the list. He has traveled to the state many times before, but always before (with the exception of the first time, which had been so long ago, before Buffy, that it seemed to be in a different life, and the last, when he had brought the teenagers himself) there had been a contingent of rowdy adolescents waiting there to meet him.
This time, he was alone.
* * * * *
Giles was surprised at who was at Wesley's funeral, and who wasn't. Roger Wyndam-Pryce was there, of course, with his wife Delores, wearing the same interminable scorn which had graced his face for decades, and his contempt for his colleagues who came to wish farewell to his son was clear. This was his distasteful duty, he seemed to say; why would anyone else wish to travel across the globe to witness this culmination of his failure?
Still, there were other Watchers here; it seemed there were those in the Council who mourned his passing besides Giles. It surprised him to see how many had turned out; after all, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was a twit when Giles had first known him. (He hated to think ill of the dead, but it was the truth.) Later, when Wesley had matured, he had already quit the Council. Perhaps Wesley signified to them what they secretly wished to be themselves: an adventurer who fought for Good on his own terms, unobstructed by the weight of institutional bureaucracy.
Giles knew most of the Watchers, or at least could put their names to their faces. He remained mostly silent to them, however, and they treated him likewise. He wasn't one of them, not really, not anymore. He was like Wesley--alone.
Except Wesley hadn't been really alone, at least not until the end. He had had allies, friends. Angel. Charles Gunn. Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok Clan. Giles wondered where these people were now; had they all been destroyed in the collapse of Wolfram & Hart? Why were they absent from the funeral of their friend and colleague?
The only person, it seemed, from that core team who had come to the funeral was one Miss Winifred Burkle. Her face was somber, and she kept looking to Wesley's open coffin as if to convince herself he was really dead. Giles made his way over to her, informed her quietly that he was sorry for her loss. "Thank you," she said, looking up at him with eyes full of a sorrow he had seen too many times. "I give you thanks."
Giles paused. He wanted to ask how she had survived the destruction of Wolfram & Hart, where were her colleagues. But he saw the pain in her eyes, and knew that this was not the time. He passed on, leaving her alone.
* * * * *
Faith
Faith had just picked up her stake and was about to go out on patrol when the phone rang. It was Giles. "What's up, G'?" she asked.
"It's Wesley," he answered. "He's dead."
"Wes?" asked Faith, as if Giles would answer "Did I say Wesley? I meant an evil vampire everyone hated. Sorry about the confusion." "What happened?"
"According to his father, they found him in the Los Angeles mansion of a powerful—-and evil—-sorcerer named Cyvus Vale. The sorcerer's head was crushed in, and Wesley seemed to die from a stomach wound from a knife or dagger some such instrument."
It was not as if the last year had been devoid of death. Faith was a Vampire Slayer, after all, and she was used to those around her dying. Anya. The potentials. Spike. Somehow, though, she had taken to believing that people only died around her. Intellectually, she knew they—-Angel, Fred, Gunn—-continued fighting without her. Emotionally, she had believed that if she stayed away they would be safe. Suddenly, she found herself inextricably angry with Wesley. He should have died at her side. He was her Watcher, after all.
"The funeral will be Tuesday in L.A. Would you like to—"
"I'll go," she answered, hollowly. "Could you—"
"I'll make the travel arrangements," he agreed. Traveling half across the country while a wanted fugitive from the law required more finesse than Faith could manage. Her strategy would have been to hitchhike the entire way.
* * * * *
Most of the people at the funeral did whatever they could to avoid making eye contact with Faith. Not that she was surprised. Many of those attending were Watchers—-she could tell by the British accents and stuck-up attitudes—-and she was a Slayer. Of course, Slayers were a dime a dozen these days, thanks to that spell Willow cast, but she had been Slayer before that, and besides, she had made sure the Council would have stood up and taken noticed.
She had gone rogue.
Rogue. Even the word sounded ugly. Sure, she was a kick-ass X-man with a cool accent (Anna Paquin just wasn't up to it) and who could fly (Andrew once had gone on a spiel with an explanation involving Mystique—-who was that blue chick-—and someone named Miss Marvel, but Faith hadn't been able to keep up, nor had she wanted to). But while in prison, Faith had looked up what the word really meant. A rogue was a vagrant, a vagabond. Someone without a home, or friends.
Someone, in other words, who was all alone.
"Faith, perhaps some others would also like to pay their respects." Faith started out of her reverie, realized she had thought all of these things while staring into Wesley's coffin.
"I'm good, G'," Faith said to Giles, moving on in the line. The Watcher followed her.
"Where's Angel?" she asked him. "Why isn't he here?"
Giles actually took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. Perhaps being around so many stiff Watchers had revived old habits—or perhaps it had been the year spent in London. "We know that the Wolfram & Hart building has been destroyed," he answered. "A very selective earthquake. Beyond that, our intelligence is only slightly better than useless. Since that night—-the same night Wesley died-—Angel hasn't been heard from. Neither have any of his associates."
"There's Fred, over there," pointing at the petite physicist. "I don't see Gunn anywhere, though."
"Gun?" asked Giles, confused. "Ah, yes. Charles Gunn. The head of Wolfram and Hart's legal department. Formerly the head, I suppose."
"And not bad in a fight either." Where was he? Where was Angel? She knew they wouldn't miss Wesley's funeral, not if they could help it, even if an apocalypse was occurring at the same time. Which meant it was rather likely an apocalypse was occurring. Or had occurred—-no, she banished the thought from her mind.
It wasn't right, though. Wesley should be mourned by his allies and colleagues, and instead they were nowhere to be found. Well, Fred was there, and Faith liked to think that she herself qualified, but still it wasn't enough. Angel should have been there. Without him, it was like Wesley was being buried alone.
Continued in Part II, here.
Rating: PG.
Timeline/Spoilers: Post-"NFA." Spoilers for the entirety of both series. Prologue to my series Dark Champions.
Summary: Illyria mourns alone. But she isn't the only one. Requiescat in pace. Thanks to
karabair who made a suggestion regarding this that I just couldn't pass up.Funeral
Illyria
The sun rose on the Los Angeles alley, and Illyria was alone, surrounded by the dead remains of monstrous evil. But then, she had always been alone. If the ashes of Spike and Angel could be found among the corpses, or if they had found shelter from the dawn, she did not know. The body of Charles Gunn was to be found somewhere in the carnage, but she knew not where.
And, in the palace of Cyvus Vale, lay the body of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, he who had been her guide in this strange world. Now she had lost even that sense of orientation. The building of the wolf, the ram, and the hart was shattered. She had no place to go, no mission for which to fight anymore. But then, she had always been alone.
When she had ruled this world and so many others like it, traveling from dimension to dimension as she pleased, she had always been alone. When you have power, after all, there is no one that you can trust; everyone wants to steal that power from you. She had lovers, and she had had generals, but she had never had a friend.
The shell had called these people friends, had called Wesley more than a friend, but now they were all fallen, and Illyria was alone, as she always would be.
She did not know why she went to the funeral. She felt she needed closure, some last moment in which to wish Wesley farewell. In any case, she went.
The mourners were a motley crew, with more than a few Shadowmen, for Wesley had once been a Shadowman, Illyria knew. Illyria remembered the Shadowmen, powerful humans with power over demonic forces. They had changed in the intervening millennia, it seemed, by quite a lot.
One of the Shadowmen was Wesley’s father, Roger Wyndam-Pryce, who had come with his wife Delores. He was a clearly powerful, intimidating man, and Illyria knew that Wesley had been afraid of him. Now Illyria wanted nothing more than to tear out the throat of this man who offered and received false condolences, to show him the might of the god-king Illyria. The Shadowmen, with their schemes and machinations, should have fallen down and worshipped her.
Another of the Shadowmen caught her interest. He said his name was Rupert Giles, and when he expressed his sympathy it was real feeling. He and Wesley had worked together, it seemed, some years ago. Rupert Giles looked at her oddly, as if he wandered how such a frail Texan could have survived the destruction of the wolf, the ram, and the hart when all else had fallen, but he said nothing.
And there was the tool of the Shadowmen, the Vampire Slayer, who had been created by them long after Illyria had been confined to the Deeper Well. Her name was Faith, and she burned with a rage that Illyria knew very well.
Soon, all left, the Shadowmen returning to their plans and their schemes, and the Slayer to her battle with evil. Perhaps Illyria would seek out this Slayer, and they would fight side by side. Perhaps, but for now Illyria was alone.
Alone in front of Wesley’s grave, Illyria let herself transform back from the form of the shell. This was who she was, not Winifred Burkle as all the Shadowmen had believed. And she was alone.
Giles
Giles heard from Roger Wyndam-Pryce about Wesley's death. The old man spoke of the death of his son matter-of-factly, in passing, in the same tone of voice he would have used if he were referring to the Council offices running out of coffee. It was a situation; it had to be dealt with.
Upon returning to his London flat, Giles called Faith. He had been her Watcher, after all; when Faith came out of her coma, it was Wesley that she tortured. A perverse connexion, perhaps, but one which he knew had been meaningful to both of them. When Wesley needed help, it was to Faith that he turned.
Wesley had been Buffy's Watcher, too, at least officially, but Giles did not even bother to call her.
He opened his notebook computer (a Mac, of course--Willow insisted on it) and began to make travel plans, for him to travel from London to Los Angeles, and for Faith to travel there from Cleveland. It was the latter set of plans which required more finesse, considering that she and not he was a fugitive from the law.
Within the week, then, Giles had returned to California, to the place where he had lived on and off for seven years, to the place which held so many painful memories for him, ready to add another to the list. He has traveled to the state many times before, but always before (with the exception of the first time, which had been so long ago, before Buffy, that it seemed to be in a different life, and the last, when he had brought the teenagers himself) there had been a contingent of rowdy adolescents waiting there to meet him.
This time, he was alone.
Giles was surprised at who was at Wesley's funeral, and who wasn't. Roger Wyndam-Pryce was there, of course, with his wife Delores, wearing the same interminable scorn which had graced his face for decades, and his contempt for his colleagues who came to wish farewell to his son was clear. This was his distasteful duty, he seemed to say; why would anyone else wish to travel across the globe to witness this culmination of his failure?
Still, there were other Watchers here; it seemed there were those in the Council who mourned his passing besides Giles. It surprised him to see how many had turned out; after all, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was a twit when Giles had first known him. (He hated to think ill of the dead, but it was the truth.) Later, when Wesley had matured, he had already quit the Council. Perhaps Wesley signified to them what they secretly wished to be themselves: an adventurer who fought for Good on his own terms, unobstructed by the weight of institutional bureaucracy.
Giles knew most of the Watchers, or at least could put their names to their faces. He remained mostly silent to them, however, and they treated him likewise. He wasn't one of them, not really, not anymore. He was like Wesley--alone.
Except Wesley hadn't been really alone, at least not until the end. He had had allies, friends. Angel. Charles Gunn. Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok Clan. Giles wondered where these people were now; had they all been destroyed in the collapse of Wolfram & Hart? Why were they absent from the funeral of their friend and colleague?
The only person, it seemed, from that core team who had come to the funeral was one Miss Winifred Burkle. Her face was somber, and she kept looking to Wesley's open coffin as if to convince herself he was really dead. Giles made his way over to her, informed her quietly that he was sorry for her loss. "Thank you," she said, looking up at him with eyes full of a sorrow he had seen too many times. "I give you thanks."
Giles paused. He wanted to ask how she had survived the destruction of Wolfram & Hart, where were her colleagues. But he saw the pain in her eyes, and knew that this was not the time. He passed on, leaving her alone.
Faith
Faith had just picked up her stake and was about to go out on patrol when the phone rang. It was Giles. "What's up, G'?" she asked.
"It's Wesley," he answered. "He's dead."
"Wes?" asked Faith, as if Giles would answer "Did I say Wesley? I meant an evil vampire everyone hated. Sorry about the confusion." "What happened?"
"According to his father, they found him in the Los Angeles mansion of a powerful—-and evil—-sorcerer named Cyvus Vale. The sorcerer's head was crushed in, and Wesley seemed to die from a stomach wound from a knife or dagger some such instrument."
It was not as if the last year had been devoid of death. Faith was a Vampire Slayer, after all, and she was used to those around her dying. Anya. The potentials. Spike. Somehow, though, she had taken to believing that people only died around her. Intellectually, she knew they—-Angel, Fred, Gunn—-continued fighting without her. Emotionally, she had believed that if she stayed away they would be safe. Suddenly, she found herself inextricably angry with Wesley. He should have died at her side. He was her Watcher, after all.
"The funeral will be Tuesday in L.A. Would you like to—"
"I'll go," she answered, hollowly. "Could you—"
"I'll make the travel arrangements," he agreed. Traveling half across the country while a wanted fugitive from the law required more finesse than Faith could manage. Her strategy would have been to hitchhike the entire way.
Most of the people at the funeral did whatever they could to avoid making eye contact with Faith. Not that she was surprised. Many of those attending were Watchers—-she could tell by the British accents and stuck-up attitudes—-and she was a Slayer. Of course, Slayers were a dime a dozen these days, thanks to that spell Willow cast, but she had been Slayer before that, and besides, she had made sure the Council would have stood up and taken noticed.
She had gone rogue.
Rogue. Even the word sounded ugly. Sure, she was a kick-ass X-man with a cool accent (Anna Paquin just wasn't up to it) and who could fly (Andrew once had gone on a spiel with an explanation involving Mystique—-who was that blue chick-—and someone named Miss Marvel, but Faith hadn't been able to keep up, nor had she wanted to). But while in prison, Faith had looked up what the word really meant. A rogue was a vagrant, a vagabond. Someone without a home, or friends.
Someone, in other words, who was all alone.
"Faith, perhaps some others would also like to pay their respects." Faith started out of her reverie, realized she had thought all of these things while staring into Wesley's coffin.
"I'm good, G'," Faith said to Giles, moving on in the line. The Watcher followed her.
"Where's Angel?" she asked him. "Why isn't he here?"
Giles actually took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. Perhaps being around so many stiff Watchers had revived old habits—or perhaps it had been the year spent in London. "We know that the Wolfram & Hart building has been destroyed," he answered. "A very selective earthquake. Beyond that, our intelligence is only slightly better than useless. Since that night—-the same night Wesley died-—Angel hasn't been heard from. Neither have any of his associates."
"There's Fred, over there," pointing at the petite physicist. "I don't see Gunn anywhere, though."
"Gun?" asked Giles, confused. "Ah, yes. Charles Gunn. The head of Wolfram and Hart's legal department. Formerly the head, I suppose."
"And not bad in a fight either." Where was he? Where was Angel? She knew they wouldn't miss Wesley's funeral, not if they could help it, even if an apocalypse was occurring at the same time. Which meant it was rather likely an apocalypse was occurring. Or had occurred—-no, she banished the thought from her mind.
It wasn't right, though. Wesley should be mourned by his allies and colleagues, and instead they were nowhere to be found. Well, Fred was there, and Faith liked to think that she herself qualified, but still it wasn't enough. Angel should have been there. Without him, it was like Wesley was being buried alone.
Continued in Part II, here.
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Date: 2009-01-22 09:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-22 10:03 pm (UTC)